


Days of the Past, Dreams for the Spring

by Iris_Quincy_Rosewood



Series: The Time for Wolves is Nigh [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Janos Slynt - Freeform, Justice, Kill Bill Sirens, THIS IS A STORY OF ONE SHOTS, The War for the Dawn, This is really just a whole lot of fluff, Traces of angst, Warging, bits of Theonsa, jealous!Jon, mostly jonsa, protective!Jon, scenes taken from ADWD, slight ooc Jon and Sansa, slight pol!Jon, unresolved...tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-05-02 11:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19198195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_Quincy_Rosewood/pseuds/Iris_Quincy_Rosewood
Summary: The days felt bleaker, now that he and death had become acquainted.Tags will continue to be added as I write more chapters :D





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I guess you could say this is a sort of flashback for my other story The Time for Wolves is Nigh. I couldn't stop thinking about this as soon as I rewrote the summary for my other story. So, here we go, a totally self-serving kinda fluffy one-shot that distracted me from my other story completely and has now kept me up until 2 in the morning... Enjoy! XD

"Let's get some rest."

Theon all but fled from the room, Sansa hot on his tail. He'd felt her wrathful eyes on him the moment he volunteered to protect the youngest Stark, and he'd tried escaping as fast as he could, but it didn't seem like that would work out. Taking off down the corridor, he forgot that Sansa's legs were just as long as his, and he was suddenly spun around below an alcove.

"You know that you don't need to prove yourself anymore," she hissed, "Why are you so determined to make sure you'll die tonight?! I've lost nearly _everyone_ , I can't lose you too." Her voice was a furious whisper, her long white fingers a vise around his arm.

Incredulous, he tried not to back down. "That's your brother that I'll be protecting out there, I thought you'd be _happy._ "

She turned away, her face wiping of all emotion just as quickly as she'd moved moments before. He took a step towards her that she'd taken away.

"I told you I wanted to fight for Winterfell," he said quietly, a hand coming up to brush away a fallen tear, he knew how much her crying angered her, "I tried to kill two defenseless boys that expected my protection, who _rightfully_ thought I would protect them. My _brothers_. This is a debt I have to repay. To myself, to Eddard Stark, Rickon, Bran... I'm sorry that it pains you, Lady Sansa, but I _want_ to do this."

She shook her head, the small smile on her lips confusing him. "But," she whispered, eyes drifting behind him and out the window.

Turning, all he could see was the darkened battlements across the yard, overlooking the great field in front of the woods. Furrowing his brows, he turned back to her, but her eyes were now closed off again, unreadable and cold.

Pulling him into her arms, he heard her say in a pained voice, "After everything we've gone through, _that you've done for me_ , you know it's just Sansa to you." He sighed and gripped her tighter, her arms reciprocating the pressure.

She sighed as well, pulling away with a pursed smile, it almost seemed dismissive to him. What was there to make of that? "Meet me in the main yard for supper later? We're having soup to ward off the cold."

He nodded slowly, still trying to process her quick change. "It might be a little while," He called to her back, when had she turned and walked away? She turned expectantly, her eyes still slightly wet. "I'm going to write a letter or two to Yara, in case-"

"I'll meet you later then." She interrupted, the pain from before returning to her eyes.

Just before he turned away from her, her misty eyes shot behind him and widened ever so slightly. 

The hair on the back of his neck stood erect, and it almost felt like his head was burning. Oh, gods, he'd felt this once before.

Sansa wiped at her eyes hastily and stepped forward slightly, her hand coming up as if to reach for whoever was behind him.

Shoulders stiffening, he turned around to meet the dark gaze of Jon Snow, who looked anything but pleased to see him. The glare he received would send anyone sprawling, but he tried his best to regain a semblance of composure under the man's murderous gaze.

Theon wasn't an idiot, at least not anymore, he'd seen the way that Jon's eyes would start to look at Sansa during the War Council and then flit away. Like he'd been _burned_. Something was clearly going on between them, whether it was a nasty quarrel or... _something_ , he knew he didn't want to be on the receiving end of Jon's protective wrath. He'd been there once before and vowed to never be again.

"Why is she crying?" Jon growled lowly, the question directed at him despite Sansa hovering behind his shoulder warily.

"Jon-" She started, annoyance and confusion laced in her voice.

Jon's eyes flew to hers, softening nearly imperceptibly. 

Feeling suddenly intrusive, despite the fact that Jon was the one who had practically materialized, he cut Sansa off, "We'll most likely be dying tomorrow," he gulped, "I've probably increased my already shite odds. Sansa would have her way and keep me from the battle entirely."

Sansa huffed, "You've come to fight for your home, I won't fault you that, it's just that-"

Stepping forward slightly, he pressed her hand. "I'm going to write the letter to Yara. We'll meet later and talk if you still feel like it. There's nothing more to discuss here, my Lady, I've made the choice for my life, and I'll see it through."

Sansa fell silent, and after a moment of hesitation, she pressed his hand back, turned, and swept from the corridor.

Jon's eyes remained focused on her until she was out of sight, an unreadable emotion playing in its depths.

Wanting to be as far away from the prowling wolf of a man as he could run, he tried to get past him unscathed, to no avail.

Jon's hand shot out, gripping Theon's arm in a vise much more menacing than his sister's. His _sister_.

This man's eyes did not have the look of a brother when they locked on Sansa, or whenever she came up in a discussion. It unsettled Theon to the core. He had gotten just a glimpse of it on the beach of Dragonstone, and now, being around Sansa and Jon both, it was quite clear.

The fierce protectiveness of a brother could only cover Jon so far before it crossed into the territory of an overprotective lover. And that's what Jon looked like, with his shaded eyes that never strayed far from the Red Wolf. 

Theon tried to recoil as Jon's hand tightened and his eyes burned darker.

He pulled Theon toward him roughly, his voice low and threatening. "If we survive this damned night, and I see her crying because of you again, count on the fact that I'll make _you_ cry ten times more."

Just as quickly as he'd materialized in the corridor, he was gone, leaving only the throbbing pain where his hand had once been. Rubbing at his arm, he started off in the opposite direction that Jon and Sansa had gone, trying to clear his mind and focus on the letter of goodbye he would be sending to his sister. 

He wondered to himself, if they should survive this night, if he'd ever say anything about what he'd seen.

&_&

Sometimes Jon thought that Ghost had lent him his nose, for how else could Jon follow her scent? It was such a sweet thing. He inhaled deeply, the aroma making his head spin. Cardamom and roses, the faintest trace of lemon mixed in. Just smelling her trail left him reeling, but standing _next to her_ , it was intoxicating, like standing next to a flower in bloom she would muddle his head and strike him dumb.

He had secretly hoped leaving for Dragonstone would help clear his head, allowing him to think without her invading all his senses. Not even the first night away, he'd found that any attempt of that would be futile. _Every_ night, he dreamt of being tangled between her legs, head resting on her stomach, her hair tickling his nose. Each breath was filled with her, the milky hand in his hair tightening every once in a while, as if she was reminding herself he was still there. His eyes would drift closed once more, and he would jerk awake suddenly in a cold sweat, thousands of miles away from her, alone. It was harrowing how her scent would still be mixed within his previous breath, and he'd find himself holding it in for so long he was gasping by the time his body forced the used breath from his lungs.

Bodily shaking himself, he set back to the task at hand. He needed to find her, and attempt not to lose his focus while he tried to set straight her meddling.  She'd most likely gone back to her solar, where they'd last talked... and inevitably fought. His lips flattened at the thought. He was such a damn fool, saying anything and everything to her without thinking. She was always able to strike him dumb without even knowing it, open up the deepest parts of him that no one else could reach.

It was the sight of that damned leather armored dress, slick black in the firelight, that undid him, even now. Tonight in the War Council being just one of many examples. Sansa's chest had been heaving that particular night that he'd first truly taken in the sight of her sing coming back to Winterfell, she was no doubt exhausted from the tirade she'd just unleashed on him, truthfully he hadn't heard a word she said after she'd asked him if he'd bent the knee for the North, or love. The fire in the hearth had silhouetted her body, making her look ethereal, her copper locks cascading down to her waist in soft waves. He supposed he should have felt ashamed that his eyes wouldn't stop appraising her, but the sight had been so achingly tantalizing. She was _within reach,_ and yet so far from his grasp. She'd snapped out a curt "Jon," and he looked back up to her icy eyes in mortification. He'd attempted to slip back into his Northern Fool act, if only to distract her, repeating his mantra of "she'll be a good Queen," while trying in vain to shake the desire from his bones. He had fled before she could see through him, and they hadn't properly talked since.

He couldn't hide anything from her, let alone his poor attempts at seduction that the gods had somehow managed to work in his favor. At least she hadn't caught on to the fact that it was a ruse, and it was believable enough that Sansa thought his "love" for the Queen was real. If Sansa was the smartest person alive in Westeros, and she thought him in love, then surely some foreign Queen would believe it.

Clearly, Daenerys had, for they now had two dragons and an extra army to defend them. Shame settled on him once again at the thought that he'd used a woman's feelings to his own gain, something he was sure Sansa would cuff him for if she ever found out. _I would have found another way, a better way,_ she would probably say, if he could bring himself to tell her. He'd given himself over to Daenerys in return for the chance that Winterfell wouldn't fall, it had seemed a small price to pay in return for his family's survival, for his people. 

When he realized becoming allies hadn't been enough for her, and being a "guest" on Dragonstone, he hadn't been able to reach Sansa for help. He had done what he'd been told to do. He had attempted to be smarter than the Northern men before him, and now here he was, a man reduced to love-sick glances and repeats of the same empty lines. He wasn't lying when he said Dany would make a good Queen, maybe not _good_ , but better than they had in the South. 

He would fulfill his end of the bargain, for if he was to be dishonorable in his touches and glances, he'd at least honor his words towards the poor young woman. He would help put her on the throne, and then the Seven Kingdoms could begin to heal. Surely that wasn't terrible?

_S_ _he threatened Sansa,_ a voice whispered,  _she burned Sam's father and brother alive._ _She held you prisoner!_

His fists clenched. She had advisors that would help her through that, help her see that that was not the way of Westeros. She wasn't across the Narrow Sea anymore, where the only way to get anything done was by bloodshed. She was blinded by her visions of destiny, Jon was sure that she would come to see the error in her ways and help them all heal should they live past this night, _she had to._ The kingdoms needed someone experienced, but she was the only one who could do it, and she wanted to. 

_You could,_ Sam's voice echoed,  _you're the rightful heir to the whole bloody Seven Kingdoms!_ A tremor shot through Jon's body at the thought. He couldn't think about that, not now, not ever. He didn't want the damnable throne. It had destroyed too many lives, killed too many innocents. It needed someone like Daenerys to wield it. Someone who could be ruthless and yet kind. 

_You're good at this, you know,_ Sansa's voice rang in his mind.

_It's different_ , he pleaded with her, _begging_ her to see that running the North and running all of the Seven Kingdoms wouldn't be the same. He'd be in a land he didn't know, and it would be different and foreign and utterly  _terrifying-_

Stopping just before Sansa's door, he dropped his raised fist and thumped his head against the wood. He was twenty-one, nearly twenty-two, and he'd fought in more battles than most wizened old men. He'd won and lost battles against bastards and dead people, he'd led his brothers in Black and then been killed by them, he'd been made King and then forsaken his people, forsaken Sansa. He didn't want the throne, if the battle tonight didn't kill him, taking that throne would.

Daenerys was wild at times, but she would grow into her role as Queen and be the ruler they all needed. After this _talk_ with Sansa, he knew better than to believe that this would be a simple talk, they always grew heated with her, he would tell Daenerys of his parentage and hope that she saw the strong alliance they could make. It was so stupid, he knew, but he couldn't help the faint desire for her to be happy that she was no longer the only Targaryen in the world. In a different universe, he could imagine riding dragons with her and then returning to the hearths of Winterfell to share supper with his family, Ghost at his feet, Sansa, Bran, and Arya talking about their respective days and they could share it together _and be a family_.

Letting out a forlorn sigh, he started to push himself off the door-

He fell forward and collided with a stiffened body. Reeling back, he met the startled eyes of Sansa, whose face was screwed up indignantly. He'd never admit it, but it was rather amusing the way her nose scrunched up.

"What in the seven hells were you doing piled up on my door?!"

_This has already not gone according to plan._ "Sorry," he muttered, stepping passed her without invitation.

She didn't seem to care, however, and just closed the door and stalked over to her desk, collapsing unceremoniously into her chair. She was staring at a piece of parchment like it had caused all her problems, and she should just rip it to shreds and end it. He had a feeling she looked like that when she thought of him a lot of the time.

He sat down warily across from her, waiting a beat before remembering what he'd come there to say. "You can't hold him back from fighting, Sansa," he said quietly. "You trying to control Theon will only torment him more."  _It's torture to go against your wishes, can't you see that?_

Her eyes swung to his, "I'm not trying to control him," she seethed, "I'm trying to keep him _alive_." 

Kicking back his chair in a sudden fury, pain lanced through his chest at her words. He marveled at how fast it turned to this, why was it only her that he talked to this way? Was she hurt by his anger? He should feel guilty for letting himself do this with her, but truly, it felt _good_. He didn't get to let down the pretenses he kept up all day with anyone. But with her, he knew that they could yell and snap at each other and it would eventually end with them forgiving one another. Gods, she could spark a fire in him. Did he do the same for her?

"And what of keeping your other family alive," he said slowly, "Arya and Bran?Do you care for _him_ more than you care for them?"  _More than you care for me?_

She rocketed out of her chair as well, coming around her desk and up to him so quickly that he fought the urge to stumble back.

"You _know_ that's not true!" She nearly shouted, "If I thought there was even a slight chance that you or Arya would _listen_ to me I'd be doing the same for you. Anything I'd ask of you would be disregarded, and I'll still be left to wait in the crypts _while you all_ _die!"_   She was nearly wailing by the time she finished, her eyes alight with rage, probably just as much at him as it was at herself for crying.

She was still standing in front of him, breathing raggedly with shining eyes, and it was at that moment that Jon realized _once again_ that she was slightly, _and only slightly,_ taller than him. He fount that he liked it, though.

_Fool_. 

Turning and collapsing himself into his chair, he dropped his head into his hands. The young _lady_ before him was nineteen, no longer a girl, but still so impossibly young to be in this position. She'd gone through her own horrors, just as he had gone through his, and more than anything he wished she could have had the life she wanted. That all the Starks could have lived the lives they deserved.  _And I'm not a Stark,_ he thought in misery.

Feeling two soft hands encircle his own, he lifted his head to find that Sansa was kneeling before him, her eyes no longer furious, but solemn. 

"Don't think I didn't catch that when you spoke of Arya and Bran, you didn't include yourself," she said softly, looking down at their joined hands. "You're a Stark, Jon, you always will be. Even if you don't believe it yourself, or other people don't believe it, _you're a Stark"_   Her hands tightened, and he wondered if she'd even meant to.

He wanted to weep like a boy. How was it that the gods had blessed him with this woman, but made her his sister? So close for him to grasp, and yet so far that he could never reach. _She's your cousin_. The word had provided a small balm to his aching heart for a fleeting moment, quite literally the only good thing to come from his true parentage, it fled as quick as it came, replaced by more problems. Despite the fact that she could miraculously feel what he needed to hear by some odd power, she apparently did not know the name imprinted on his heart.

Feeling a tear escape, he reached up to wipe it away hastily. Like her, he so very much hated to cry.

She stayed his hand, leaning up instead while his lungs froze and his heart seemed to stop. She wouldn't- she couldn't- was she going to? She needed to be the one to-

She slowly pressed her lips to his _cheek_ , gently kissing the tear away. He released a ragged sigh, only partly in relief, mostly in guilty disappointment.

Her lips came back wet and parted, her breath fanning his across his face hotly, and he fought the shudder of pleasure that rose up his spine. He let out a stuttered breath, trying to quell the urges that rose up in response to the sight she made.

Frantically trying to think of anything but her eyes on his, her lips wet with his weakness, he latched on to the first thought that popped into his head. "Do you still like to dance?" He blurted, immediately regretting it at the astonished look in her eyes.  _Idiot idiot idiot idiot idiot-_

"I haven't danced in a very long time," she said cautiously, "I suppose with the right partner I might come to love it again."

Well, he sure as hells wasn't the right partner, he'd never danced in all his life. And yet, he found himself asking her to dance with him, the astonishment returning to her eyes and having him clamming up again.

He tried to amend himself, barely stuttering out, "That was stupid, I don't know how to dance, and the dead are going to be here in a matter of hours, I'm sor-"

She stood, with all the grace of a _true_ queen, and silently held out her hands.

His mouth was still gaping open, and he audibly snapped it shut. Without thinking, he took her hands in his own, passing his thumbs across them, reveling in the soft warmth. 

&_&

They'd opted to just hold each other, swaying to the sound of the winds outside, content to just be with each other.

He dearly wished that the end of humanity wasn't practically on their doorstep, and they could simply stay here dancing on the stones of Winterfell forever. He wasn't a good dancer, not even slightly, but he knew his feet well enough, and they were hardly even what one would call dancing. 

There was something unspoken between them, a shift, that neither wanted to admit or talk about. It was in the way his hand would trace patterns on her back, drifting lower with each circle, and she would curl her fingers in the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck, letting out a sigh against him.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed since their near screaming match, and once again he marveled at how odd it was that they could go so quickly from being murderously angry with one another to being so at peace in each other's arms.

He'd tried not to risk getting so close, not after what had happened on the battlements those many months ago. It was so easy to lose control with her, lose himself in her eyes and the small touches he would allow himself, that he could simply lean forward, and careen off the feeble wall he had built himself. The emotions he kept deeply hidden inside always seemed to come to light around her, he was no longer a Warden, or a King, or whatever the hells he was when it was just them. He was Jon. And Jon wanted nothing more than to crush her to him, feel the exact moment when she lost herself as well. Let her emotions take over and throw away the icy mask of Lady Sansa. Become _Sansa_.

He pressed her closer, tilting his head to rest against hers so he could hear each breath she took in and out. At the closer proximity, their chests brushed as they breathed in sync. His face flushed.

"Do you have any happy memories after you left Winterfell?" He asked, trying to steer his mind away from his quickly turning thoughts.

He almost immediately regretted asking, despite truly wanting to know. She didn't stiffen like he thought she would, but the air changed slightly. Instead, she seemed to think on his question.

After a time, her hands tightened nearly imperceptibly on his shoulders, and then she pulled away. She held a hand up at his apologetic visage, for he now blamed himself for ruining their peace, she silenced his concern.

She turned and grabbed his chair, dragging it to the fire in the most unladylike manner, and then doing the same with her own.

He watched as she sat down and beckoned him over, an unreadable emotion making her eyes dance. Once he'd sat down, she turned to the fire and drew in a deep breath.

"It's not exactly a happy memory, at least not at the time it happened," she began uncertainly, staring into the flames.

Squinting his eyes in confusion, he almost asked her what _that_ meant, but thinking better of it, he waited for her to continue.

"There was a man that I hated in King's Landing, nearly as much as I hated Jeoffry. He was there the day that our father died," she said softly, hands smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in her skirts.

He flinched and then stilled, hoping it was discreet enough that she wouldn't see, he couldn't handle telling her of _it_ now,

"This man was there the day that _Lord Eddard Stark_ was beheaded. He  _shoved_  father to the ground for the headsmen, and I was made to watch every bit of it. I watched father lose his head, and then I watched that same man who threw father down dote upon his Boy-King. He was a dishonorable man that agreed with anything and everything his precious King Joeffry decreed, and I had wished with all my heart that he would meet his end just as father had, have his head taken like father's, in my childish fury I wished that a hero would strike him down and take his head in retribution." Her face was pinched in fury, her brows scrunching together as she scowled at the flames. " _But heroes don't exist,_ and men like him were allowed to live while honorable men like father rotted on spikes."

She paused, never looking away from the flames, fisted hands uncurling as her pained expression relaxed into a surprisingly serene one.   

"When I met your friend, Edd, from the wall," she bobbed her head, most likely gesturing as if the wall were still in front of them, "he told me of a man that was executed by the Lord Commander."

He was confused by the turn of the conversation, but again, waited for her to continue. She took a deep breath, her armored chest drawing his eyes as it expanded.  _Damn that dress._  Did she know how partial he was to it? Was she just trying to make him suffer? He'd like nothing more than to-

"I've executed a lot of men," he rasped, hoping she'd continue and cut off his thoughts.

"This one had done quite a lot more than you probably knew." She muttered, the bitterness in her voice effectively shutting his thoughts down.  

She turned her head, surprising him with the tenderness in her eyes.

"The man's name was Janos Slynt," she said gingerly. "He was the man who had a hand in our father's death, and I nearly collapsed when I heard how he died."

He couldn't help the slight intake of air at this revealed information. He remembered that day well, the disobedience and disrespect of the man, and how Jon ended up beheading Slynt himself instead of the hanging he'd initially thought of. 

_I wished for a hero to take his head._ Slynt's head was taken, all right. If Jon wasn't already sitting down, he'd probably need to.

Their journeys had tied and weaved together without even coming into contact at all, so similar, and yet so different. It was astonishing.

Bringing a hand up to his mouth and rubbing his chin in disbelief, he started a bit when her hand came around his wrist, gently pulling his hand away from his mouth and into her lap. She looked down at their locked hands, a fond smile stretching her lips as she watched her hands play with his fingers. He had to fight the urge to close his eyes, it was such a simple thing, and yet so comforting.

She lifted her head, the smile lighting her entire face and nearly taking his breath away. How long had it been since he'd seen her smile like that? How he dearly wished she'd smile more. What he would give to hear laughter echoing in the halls of their home again.

"It would be childish of me to say you're a hero," she said sheepishly "I would also not burden you with the expectation." She swallowed, glancing down at their now interlocked hands, almost like she was searching for confidence.

"However," she murmured, eyes returning to his, "I wish for you to know that if there ever was a hero to exist, Jon, _brave and gentle_ Jon, it would be you." 


	2. Reunited

_The days felt bleaker, now that he'd been acquainted with death._  

He'd seen the endless abyss, knew there were no gods to accept them into the afterlife. But if they were real, he'd be cursing them right now. His brothers, his _family_ , had killed him. All his life, he had sought after somewhere to belong, where people wouldn't look at him as Ned Stark's bastard, but as _Jon_. He'd known that bastards went to the Wall, made lives for themselves there, but his childhood daydreams had consisted of a band of brothers all like Uncle Benjen. Honorable, good, _heroic_. The stories he'd loved so much had coddled him, the false sense of reality crashing on his head like a bucket of snow to show him the dark, broken world. Nonetheless, he'd made a life for himself here, rose up through the ranks, handled the hardships... Fallen in love.

He'd trade it all to go back to being the Bastard of Winterfell, when there was still laughter all around him, even if he wasn't the one laughing. Now, his family was dead, and the family he'd made for himself had stabbed him through the heart. There was no one left, with Sam off at the Citadel, Edd staying at the Night's Watch... Arya was gone, no news of her since he'd heard of his father's execution. Then, everything else had come in what seemed a rush. The boys, Robb and Lady Catelyn, all dead. And his eldest sister... He hadn't heard anything of her since he'd gotten news of Lady's execution. 

Jolting slightly, a memory from _that night_ came to mind. Just before Olly had come, he'd been thinking of the exact same thing, how Lady had died... The memory had come unbidden, conjured from what he'd blamed was an exhausted mind that was not shackled tightly enough to keep her from his thoughts, like he usually did to near perfection. The vision of her in the courtyard the day they left had assaulted him. She'd been carding her fingers through Lady's fur, humming to herself as snow fell all around them, sticking to her auburn hair like snow on fire. It had ransacked his mind of any other thought, the only thing remaining was the feeling of terror at going up to her, saying goodbye, having to speak with her. He'd watched from behind his horse, like the craven lad he was, as her humming had turned to soft singing, he in turn sighing and leaning on his horse's shoulder to better listen. He'd always loved to hear her sing, something he almost never got to experience unless he was sneaky. Lady Catelyn sang to her children sometimes at night, but never to him. 

His mind had altered the memory, oddly, so that Sansa had not been singing of Aemon the Dragonknight, but softly chanting the same line over and over in that clear voice of hers as her fingers continued their threading, as if the line she spoke was her own words.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow. You know nothing, Jon Snow._

His stomach turned, and his hands clenched together tightly. It was the first time his body had reacted to anything, up until now he'd only felt hollow and numb. The thought of her, of what he'd once felt as a child, pulled a hiss through his teeth. The familiar wrenching at his heart returned, and the equally familiar shame came soon after it. He'd let his mind go too far, he only let himself think of her on rare occasions, when he could no longer suppress revisiting a memory, or imagining what her thoughts would be on certain things... No, he'd slipped up badly, not just that night, but right now. He needed to think of other things. _Now._  

"Where you gonna go?" Edd rasped, supplying the perfect distraction. 

"South," Jon sighed, shoving his gloves into his riding bag. 

"What you gonna do?" 

He stopped packing, looking up at his friend staring forlornly out the window. 

"Get warm?" He attempted a smile, a pathetic one, but it was the first that he'd tried since-

Edd turned, shooting an unimpressed glare at him, and the grimace of a smile slipped from his face as quickly as it came _._

Maybe, just maybe, he might find some spark of life inside him if he could just find the sun, and if he somehow fell on his own blade before reaching it, so be it. He needed to warm his skin, feel _something_ again. Something other than this dull ache that hardly felt human. Ever since he'd woken up- He sighed, "woken up," didn't feel exactly right.  When he was... returned, a part of him was missing. He can't feel anything, except the dull ache that resides in the hollow shell that is his body. The snow falling on his face had lost its chill, food sliding down his throat lost its taste, although there wasn't much to begin with-

Edd slammed Longclaw on the table, peering up at him with furious eyes. Jon didn't even flinch.

"I was with you at Hardhome, we saw what's out there. We know it's comin' 'ere. _How can you leave us now?"_

"I did everything I could," he growled, "You know-"

"You swore a vow!" Edd cried, leaning forward imploringly.

"Aye, I pledged my life to the Night's Watch. I _gave_ my life." he snarled, his arms landing with a dull thud on the table as he bent towards Edd.

Edd's voice turned pleading. "For all Nights to come-"

"They killed me, Edd. My own brothers! _You want me to stay here after that?!"_

Just then, the horn blew once, accompanied by the cries of the Black Brother's to open the gates.

Despite it being the same sounds that had become white noise after hearing it a thousand times, he turned and stalked around Edd, eyes boring into the door like he could see through it. It was most likely a shipment, but there was an odd tug in his chest to go out and check. Even if it was no longer his obligation, he would go and see, just in case.

Not bothering to grab Longclaw or a cloak, he had no use for either, as he could no longer feel the cold, nor did he care to defend himself should the need arise. He wrenched open the door and found himself hurriedly making his way to the overlooking platform, subconsciously baffled at the lively behavior.

Edd was right on his heels, most likely curious what had gotten him to move so fast. He would admit that he's been shuffling about the last few days, the gaping holes in his chest making him feel like a walker. He wondered why he was so intent on seeing who this was, it wasn't his concern any longer.

_It won't hurt to look, and then you can finish packing._

Reaching the platform, he dimly noted that he'd eagerly placed his hands on the snow-covered banister to better see the visitors, of which there seemed to be two, _nay_ , three. He was also aware that the familiar bite of frost his fingers usually felt when he placed them in snow was gone, only the recognition that his hands were covered in the coarse, frozen substance. 

He could see two riders, three horses. There was undoubtedly a third rider, who was obscured by a white mare that was about to be led away. He was aware that the two other riders were staring at him, he was also aware that one of the riders was female, and the biggest woman he'd ever seen. The other rider was nothing of note, most likely a lost squire by the meek way he held his shoulders. Neither mattered as all thoughts honed in on the third rider, who was now revealed to be slowly turning around the small yard.

_Fire_.

Her hair was kissed by it, and for one moment, his chest seized.

_Ygritte?_

No, he'd burned her himself, held her as her eyes emptied. Besides, this woman's hair was darker, like the embers of a fire that still held blazing heat, instead of the roaring flame that had been his wildling's locks.

She continued to turn agonizingly slow, and just when he felt like he'd burst, her eyes skimmed over his platform and stuttered back to meet his.

Blue. Even from this far, he could see how blue they were. Fire and ice were what she was made of, the only things he could see in this drab setting. Any color surrounding them was drained and sucked into her presence, like he'd never see any other color but her hair and eyes.

All at once, it was like the world had refocused, and he could hear and see everything. The rustling movements of the brothers, the soft whistling of the wind, he could've sworn he could hear each snowflake passing by his ear, yet every fiber of his being had sharpened on her. His hands slipped off the banister and dropped to his sides, the chill in the air attacking his wet fingers. He could feel the snow melting on his palm, rolling down to the pads of his fingers and dropping to the rotten wood under his feet.

He knew who it was, yet he couldn't accept it, _wouldn't_. It couldn't be her, there was no way. He half expected the rest of his family to follow after her, but the gates were closed, and it was just her staring up at him, suddenly alone in the middle of the yard. Where had everyone gone? 

He needed to get closer, touch her, make sure this wasn't some hallucination. Perhaps his resurrection had caused him to go mad. 

If she was what his mind would conjure in a deranged state, he found he was quite fine with that.

Of their own accord, his feet took him down the stairs. The breath froze in his lungs as he reached the middle, eyes still trained on her to make sure she didn't disappear. He couldn't blink, couldn't _breathe_. He reached the bottom of the stairs, suppressing the urge to go faster as he rounded a small snowbank. He could make out the finer details of her now, the unkempt state she was in, the dirt on her face, the wisps of flame curling at her temples and streaking down her sharp cheeks. He didn't dare look anywhere but her face, at the breath steaming out of her that seemed to come more rapidly with each step he took towards her. With three feet between them, he stopped. It was her, and yet he couldn't get any closer. Petrified, he ferociously tried not to speak her name.  

_Sansa_.

The breath he'd been holding came out in a stuttering exhale. 

Was she afraid of him? She looked afraid. Had death left too distinct a mark on him? Could she smell it, feel it, like he did? He didn't want her to be afraid of him, couldn't bear the thought of it. He didn't know what to do, his breathing starting to match her own in pace. Nerves climbed up his spine, holding him immobile as they continued to appraise each other. 

It was like time had slowed as the snow continued to fall, planting cold kisses upon his lips. Even from here, he could see them getting caught on her lashes. There was an audible intake of air, light, and feminine. Then she suddenly starting forward at him, her arms fluttering desperately. _For him._   He didn't see the grown woman before him anymore, but the young girl he'd spied on the day he'd last seen Winterfell.

His spine was unlocked, his fingers freed from their frozen prison and feet unstuck from the icy ground. Instinctively, his hands dove to meet her as they collided, and he swept her up and pressed her to him. His eyes were still open in shock as his arms tightened around her. She nestled into him, and something inside his heart burst and flooded his body. His eyes closed in pure joy as he swayed them slightly. Warmth. It was all he could feel and drown in after the days spent in cold oblivion. 

He could smell her, feel her. She was _real_ , she was here. In his arms. 

She smelled of dirt, horses, sweat, _blood_. He could smell blood. Was it hers? Someone else? He couldn't stop the answering fury at the idea that someone had come close enough for blood to be on her. 

Storing away the quickly mounting questions, he knew that finding the sun was no longer his target. The sun had found him in the form of this warm piece of _home_. 

An intense, unnamed emotion surged through him as she sighed softly against his ear. She was soft, and while not the small girl she'd once been, she still seemed so fragile. His hand that was over her cloak rubbed comforting circles on her shoulder as the hand under it curled further around her. He wished he could press her further into himself, somehow meld them together and shield her from whatever had driven her into his arms. 

He had a purpose now, one objective to live for if not for his own soul... Or whatever might be left of it that had come alive to greet her. 

_Protect her._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took longer than I thought to write the scene word for word from GoT (credit to the writers), and I also made a couple changes to the scene that Jon was thinking of before his death in the books. Hope you enjoy, and leave a comment if you feel like it!

**Author's Note:**

> I edited and reposted this little one shot. I hope you enjoyed and leave a comment if you feel like it, I love reading them!


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